


happy til the next deterioration

by scrapbullet



Category: Long Firm
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To say that he’s contemplated suicide is an understatement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	happy til the next deterioration

**Author's Note:**

> Rule number one; don't ruminate on Harry Starks when you've had one too many Bailey's. I will probably look at this tomorrow and think; what on earth were you on? A tiny bit of warning for british-isms; to lose one's rag is to lose one's temper. To get on someone's wick is to get on their nerves, to irritate etc

To say that he’s contemplated suicide is an understatement.

There are times, in the dead of night when the streets are silent and empty but for those working girls all too willing to spread their legs for a twenty, when Harry ponders, fuckin’ _ruminates_ on the length of metal in his lap. Sits and palms one end and thinks, thinks real _hard_ about life and his boys and his club that goes nowhere no matter how hard he tries, thinks of the dancing girls in their skimpy outfits and the nonces that come in to sit and drink watered-down whisky with their eagle eyes on the lads under Harry’s wing; lecherous and wanting.

He sits, and thinks it could just be so _easy_.

Nah, Harry Starks doesn’t have the guts.

 _Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t pull the trigger, cut with the knife. Couldn’t OD on meds, couldn’t do it._

Why? Not because he’s a coward, no, but because if he weren’t around then who else would keep the bastards in line? Hm? Who? No-one, that’s who.

Talking of bastards...

Those nonces in his club pay his bloody rent. Pay his _bills_. They’re his livelihood, even though they’re nothing more than cockroaches scuttling around his feet. They sit and they jibber and they drink his booze and leave without paying a tip, and then have the balls to look at someone else’s property.

Fuckin’ insects.

Squash one and another takes its place.

And yeah, sometimes Harry has a little fun. Loses his rag. Sometimes they’ll say something stupid, something dumb, something that gets on his wick. Sometimes their beady little eyes will linger too long on Craig or Billy or Tommy and who is to blame if he sees red? Who, really, is to blame when Harry pulls them aside and beats their pretty little heads in until their brains dribble out of their ears; thick and wet and red.

Not Harry, that’s who.

And, afterwards, when his bloodied hands shake and tremble so much that Tommy holds them tight, kisses the knuckles in a bid to soothe, to _comfort_ , Harry’s not to blame.

He’s not to blame.


End file.
